


A push in the right direction

by RuArcher (Coriesocks)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drinking, Eavesdropping, Established Relationship, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Light Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, Not Epilogue Compliant, Rated M for language, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 19:06:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14921168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coriesocks/pseuds/RuArcher
Summary: Harry over hears Draco talking with his friends and realises he may have jumped into a relationship with him a bit too quickly.





	A push in the right direction

Harry honestly has no clue how it happened, but at some point over the first few months of his eighth year at Hogwarts — aided in no small part by Seamus’ ‘medicinal’ firewhiskey, Hannah’s ‘medicinal’ weed, and a blind refusal to talk about ‘feelings' — he seemed to have acquired a sort-of boyfriend. Someone to seek out in shadowed alcoves after dark. Someone who, in turn, would seek him out and drag and him into dusty, little-used corners of the library. Someone with whom to shut out the world and forget the past. It had started simply enough; nothing more than a bit of drunken kissing, some light frotting, a frantic handjob here and there, and it certainly wasn't planned, (he couldn't have pinpointed when or how or why it started if he'd been held at wand point) but nevertheless, slowly but surely, it had happened; Draco Malfoy had become the centre of his world. They'd mutually decided it would be best for both of them if they didn’t flaunt their new closeness — people knew they were friends, but they didn’t _officially_  know anything more than that — but it soon became an unspoken rule of any eighth year social gathering that when Harry and Draco started looking at each other in a certain way, when their sniping turned more flirtatious than cutting, they should be left to it. No one would express any surprise when Harry and Draco would disappear halfway through the evening and not be seen again until breakfast the next day. Nor would anyone comment when Harry or Draco would seek the other out in class or at meal times or in the common room; they would just silently make room so Harry and Draco could sit beside each other.

For a short while, everything had been perfect, so it really shouldn't have come as a surprise to Harry when it all unravelled around him. After all, how could anything between them ever be allowed to go smoothly?

* * *

 

Harry runs back to the common room, battered Converse skidding across flagstones polished by centuries of footfall. The slap of his shoes on the hard stone echoes harshly around the empty hallways, reminding him just how late he is. He’d spent all night working on that bloody essay, and then gone and left the damn thing on his desk in his rush to get to class. In retrospect, sneaking those extra few minutes of privacy in the shower with Draco earlier had been a mistake, but he had been so warm and wet and soapy...and really, what red-blooded eighteen-year-old boy would have been able to leave their boyfriend in that state? When Harry bursts into the common room a few short minutes later, breathless and maybe a teeny bit aroused, the place is empty except for Neville and Luna, who are huddled over a book in the corner, and so completely absorbed in whatever it is that they don’t even acknowledge his arrival. He frowns, momentarily confused — he had expected to see Draco since he has this period free and he’d not mentioned anything about going off anywhere. Not that Draco had to give Harry a schedule of his exact movements for each day but, well, he likes routines and it is very rare that he deviates from his set daily patterns unless some outside influence forces his hand. Tuesday morning free periods are spent catching up with Theo and Pansy (and sometimes Blaise) in the common room over a pot of Darjeeling and whichever cake the house-elves had baked fresh that morning. It had been this way since the start of the school year and had only changed once when Pansy had been held up in the infirmary after breaking her ankle while drunk dancing. Even then, Draco, Theo, and Blaise had just moved their Tuesday catch-up to the infirmary instead.

Neither Neville or Luna look up as Harry passes through, still too engrossed in whatever it is they are doing, so he continues to the boy’s dormitories without bothering to alert them to his presence; he just wants to be in and out anyway, no need to get himself dragged into a discussion about man-eating plants or imaginary creatures. He’s already cutting it fine if he wants to get back to class no more than five minutes late. Flitwick had started taking a harder line against tardiness with eighth years once he noticed people turning up later and later to his Monday morning class. Not even playing the ‘Saviour of the Wizarding world’ card — Ron’s idea, not his — had managed to get him out of his last detention. The essay is sitting exactly where he had expected to find it: on his desk, rolled and ready for handing in. He snatches it up and stuffs it in his bag, careful not to crumple it too much, then quickly scans the room to check for anything else he might have forgotten. Blaise’s area, as always, is immaculate, but thankfully his other roommate, Terry, has standards that more evenly match his own so Harry doesn’t feel too bad about turning the area on and around his bed into something resembling a jumble sale at the end of a busy day’s rifling.

He’s about to rush back to his lesson when the uncertainty about Draco’s whereabouts, which has been scratching at the back of his mind for the last couple of minutes, makes him falter. If he leaves now, and runs at the same speed or faster, he can _possibly_  still avoid a detention...but chances are slim, and he doubts he’ll be able to concentrate on the lesson anyway. So he makes a split second decision to check Draco’s room and see if he is hiding in there. He’s probably earned a detention already; what difference will a few minutes more make? It’s not like Flitwick hands out detentions by the minute — just one per late arrival. Besides, he'll never forgive himself if it turns out Draco is sick or in pain and he’d not bothered to check in on him.

Draco’s door is ajar, which is not that odd because the door is old and sticky, and doesn’t shut properly unless yanked hard while the handle is angled _just-so_  (Harry has long lost count of the number of times he’s listened to Draco complain about this), but Draco would normally ensure it was closed if he was the last to leave the room. As Harry draws closer though, he realises he can hear the murmur of familiar voices drifting through the crack into the corridor, so he slows his approach. It sounds almost like the Slytherin tea-and-cake meet up is taking place, but why has it been moved into Draco’s room? He can’t make out individual words to start with, but the voices become clearer as draws closer to the door. He raises his fist to knock — if Draco _is_  chatting with his friends, he’d probably not appreciate Harry just bursting in uninvited — but before his knuckles make contact with the wood, he hears his name and freezes, hand poised ready to rap on the door.

“...going on with Potter?” There is no mistaking Pansy’s nasally voice.

“Yes, come on Draco, spill. Gossip in the corridors is that you two are getting quite serious…” Theo’s plummy drawl is also instantly recognisable.

“What gossip? Who’ve you been talking too?” Draco asks, sounding mildly concerned. Fair enough, thinks Harry; they want to keep things quiet after all. He’s not too alarmed by the news though. Life would be much more simple if he and Draco didn’t have to sneak around, so if Draco is ready to out them, he’s all for it.

“Irrelevant,” Pansy replies. “So what is it? Don’t tell me you’ve actually gone and fallen for the twat?”

Harry holds his breath in anticipation. He’d hoped he would be the first to hear Draco’s confession of deeper feeling, maybe after one of their more romantic trysts, but overhearing the confession illicitly would be almost as good. He resolves to treat Draco to—

“Of course not! I can’t stand him,” Draco snaps.

Harry’s held breath catches in his throat and he struggles to breathe past the sudden pressure on his chest. He reaches out and grips the door frame to stop himself falling to the floor. His skin feels tingly and tight, and he wants to run away and pretend he’d never heard those awful words, but he’s glued to the spot. Surely he's just misunderstanding Draco's words. That's the trouble with eavesdropping and hearing only half the exchange; the context is missing. He strains his ears to hear the rest of Draco’s words over the sound of the blood pounding in his ears, desperately hoping to hear something that will nullify what Draco said; perhaps an _‘I’m kidding!’_  or something like that.

“Well, what’s going on then? You two are practically joined at the hip — always disappearing off together, fawning all over each other in the common room, and don’t get me started on the way you follow him around like a lovesick puppy. It turns my stomach! What would your Father say?” Says Pansy.

“Fuck what he thinks,” Draco spits “Why do you think I’m doing this? What’s the one thing that would piss off my parents more than me being gay?”

“You being gay with Potter,” Theo states, with barely concealed glee. “You clever little bugger.”

Harry’s grip on the door frame tightens, his blunt nails pressing little half-moon dents into the wood. He thinks he might throw up, but still, his legs won’t carry him away.

“Exactly! If people are gossipping then obviously my plan is working. Merlin’s tits, do you really think I would put my dick anywhere near that speccy git if it didn’t make my Father apoplectic with rage?”

Harry swears he can actually feel his heart breaking. It had barely been an hour ago that Draco had kissed him goodbye when they’d parted ways after their shower with quiet promises of future meetings. Had everything been a lie?

“That’s a relief. I thought you’d gone soft on us,” Theo says with a chuckle that makes Harry want to throw up.

 _Fuck you, Theo_ , Harry thinks as he swallows down the bile rising in his throat.

“At least he’s pretty. Circe, imagine having to plough one of the weasels? Ugh. Or little miss know-it-all? Perish the thought!” Cackles Pansy, her spiteful laughter cutting Harry more effectively than a _sectum sempra_.

If Harry’s heart hadn’t currently been shattering into thousands of pieces, he would have burst into the room and hexed the lot of them. As it was, it is all he can do to blink furiously to try and stem the flow of tears. He can’t believe he fell for Draco’s lies; he feels so stupid for allowing himself to be duped so easily. Fucking _Malfoy_. How could he have let things get so far?

He stumbles back down the corridor, rubbing his face with the sleeve of his robes to wipe away few the tears that managed to escape. He won’t torture himself further by listening to the rest of their exchange. The common room is still empty aside from Neville and Luna, so he hastens through it, ignoring their cheery ‘ _Hi Harry_ ’s’ (why’d they both choose now to notice him? If he’d only stopped to talk to them on the way through, he could have saved himself from hearing Draco’s confession). His legs carry him into the hallway and halfway towards charms before he realises how ridiculous he’s being; there’s no way he can face charms class now. Flitwick would string him up by his shoelaces for cutting class, but fuck it. He ducks into a convenient alcove hidden behind a rather ugly tapestry of a naked, overweight old man playing a lyre; the last thing he wants is to run into someone he knows before he’s had a chance to compose himself or there’d be no end of questions. At this time of day, the alcove is empty, but after dark, it’s popular with copulating teens, so he casts a quick scourgify before slumping to the floor, hugging his knees to his chest, and burying his face in his arms.

Harry doesn’t know how much time has passed when Ron’s head peers around the gap between the wall and the tapestry, but he assumes he must have at least missed charms.

“There you are! Everything alright, mate?” Ron asks cheerfully. He doesn’t wait for an answer — not that Harry was going to supply one — before ducking back out. “Found him, ‘Mione! Fair warning, he looks rough as old socks.”

“I might look like shit, but I’m not deaf,” Harry says loudly, adding _bell end_  under his breath for good measure. He stands up and tries to shake the pins and needles out of his foot. He can sense a confrontation coming, and would rather not be hunched on the floor in a puddle of snot and despair when his friends burst in and disregard his boundaries and personal space in the name of friendly concern.

Before he can think up any convincing excuses as to why he’s hiding alone in a make-out alcove in the middle of the day, Hermione and Ron bustle into the small space, bringing with them the smell of parchment and that odd musty odour that always seems to permeate Flitwick’s classroom.

“How’d you know I wasn’t busy in here,” he grumbles, more to buy himself time than out of any actual annoyance.

“We didn’t, not for sure, but for one, it’s the middle of the day and we assumed you had enough class to leave your…um... _extracurricular pursuits_  until after dinner at least, and two, we just saw Malfoy in the common room, so...” Hermione shrugs, eyeing him curiously as if he’s about to sprout horns or an extra nose.

Harry scuffs the floor with his trainers. “Fucking Malfoy,” he spits, unable to hold his tongue. He refuses to make eye contact with either of them, but he can feel the pity oozing from their pores, filling the air in the cramped alcove with their suffocating sympathy.

“Oh, bloody hell. We’re not back there again are we?” Ron asks exasperatedly.

“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” Harry snaps.

“Alright, alright, keep your hair on,” Ron says, holding his hands up in a placatory gesture, which at such close quarters makes it look like he’s trying to cop a feel of Harry’s chest. He exchanges a glance with Hermione whereby they apparently non-verbally discuss Harry’s entire pathetic love life, and Harry tries really hard not to scowl. _These people are your best friends_ , he reminds himself. _They only want to help you_.

“Well, I’d best be off. That transfiguration essay won’t write itself! Hope you get your shit sorted, mate,” Ron says, backing out of the alcove. Whatever passed between him and Hermione, it seems she’s drawn the short straw and is the one stuck with Harry. Or maybe it’s the long straw? Either way, Harry isn’t being allowed to mope in peace.

“Harry, why did you miss charms? Did something happen?” Hermione asks once they’re alone. She places a hand on his arm and her large, brown eyes bore into him, pleading with him to open up to her. He’s still not one hundred percent certain she’s not a legilimens — she’s so perceptive sometimes, it’s scary — but if she’s trying to probe his mind right now, she’s not going to get much more than a head full of what he and Draco had got up to together over the last few months, and he doubts she wants to see that… He pulls away from her gaze when he feels his eyes starting to sting again.  _Fucking Malfoy_.

“I’m fine. Just felt a bit ill. S’ok,” Harry mumbles sullenly, shrugging a shoulder. He wipes his nose on the sleeve of his robe and ignores the way Hermione’s expression momentarily tightens in disgust.

If Hermione notices his red, puffy eyes and blotchy post-cry face — it’s quite dark in the alcove, so there’s a slight chance she’s not noticed — then she says nothing. He can feel her concern though, her burning curiosity, her desire to help, probing him and checking for chinks in his _‘I’m fine’_  armour. He doesn’t want to tell her. How can he admit that he’d fallen for a lie? Both Hermione and Ron had expressed concerns over his closeness with Draco but he’d dismissed them so firmly that they’d not dared raise the subject again. He doesn’t want to admit they were right all along.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” She asks.

He doesn’t, not particularly. He’d rather keep hiding in his alcove until he gets displaced by some randy sixth years, but he appreciates she’s attempting a softly-softly approach to getting him to open up so he finds himself agreeing anyway. He knows she’s going to needle him some more, but he also knows he can’t realistically hide in an alcove all day, so given the choice between a walk with Hermione or slinking back to his dorm where Draco is likely to turn up, the walk is a clear winner.

“You were right,” he says eventually. They’ve been strolling around the grounds for about twenty minutes with minimal conversation. Hermione had clearly hoped the silence would encourage him to open up, and fuck it all, she’s right. “Draco’s not changed at all. He’s the same cunt he always was— Ow! ‘Mione!” He winces when Hermione whacks him around the head.

“Language,” she admonishes, glaring at him sternly. “Go on then, what happened?” She asks in lieu of apologising for assaulting him.

He scowls, rubbing the back of his head, and considers not answering. That resolve lasts all of a few seconds under her glare though. “I overheard him telling his friends that he’s only...you know...with me to piss off his parents. And that he can’t stand me,” he admits quietly, hating himself for tearing up again.

“Oh Harry, I’m so sorry.” She wraps an arm around his waist and squeezes him. “Are you sure that’s what he said?”

“Of course I am!” He cries angrily. It’s hard enough having to say this shit out loud without Hermione doubting him.

“Sorry, sorry. So... you two were serious, then? I mean, I had my suspicions, but you’ve always been so private...”

“He wasn’t bloody serious,” Harry mutters, side-stepping her question. It’s too painful, too embarrassing, to voice how hard he’d fallen, even to Hermione.

“I’m sorry, Harry. At least you found out now and not later down the line.” She pulls him to a stop in the middle of the path and hugs him tightly. It’s not much, and it doesn’t lessen the hurt, but it reassures him that he has her support through this mess, and he’s eternally thankful she held back from the ‘ _I told you so_ ’ lecture he knows full well he deserves.

* * *

 

Harry does his best to avoid Draco over the next few days, but it’s hard when everyone seems so keen to push them together and give them ‘time alone’. What had once been a welcome subtle interference into his life is now infuriating. Draco isn’t stupid, and so it takes him no time at all to notice something is different, and avoidance becomes that much harder when Draco is actively seeking him out and trying to get him on his own. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought Draco had access to the Marauder’s Map with his sudden uncanny ability to pop up everywhere Harry is (he only knows he doesn’t because Harry’s had the map hidden in his pocket since getting back from his walk with Hermione earlier in the week).

Harry’s luck finally runs out on Friday morning. He comes out of the shower, a towel wrapped around his waist, as usual, expecting to find an empty room since his roommates are always busy at this time of day, only to be faced with Draco and Blaise lounging on Blaise’s bed. They look up at him simultaneously, and Harry freezes. Draco’s cheeks redden a touch as his eyes rake over Harry’s damp torso, but otherwise, his stare remains steely. Harry had been expecting a confrontation for several days now, judging by the looks of confused frustration Draco had been throwing him every time Harry managed to slip away from him. He had, however, expected to be wearing a few more clothes and to not have an audience, even if it was just Blaise.

Blaise, of course, was less subtle in his leering. “Not bad, Potter. Not bad at all,” he drawls, running his eyes appraisingly over Harry’s body.

Harry swallows down the feelings of awkwardness and inferiority he always gets when he catches Blaise looking at him like he’s a prize heifer. He feels massively under-dressed and more than a little bit objectified. Before he can think of anything to say, though, Draco punches Blaise in the thigh and hisses something at him under his breath, too quietly for Harry to hear. It makes his heart flutter with a surge of fondness that Draco is apparently defending his honour, until Draco’s words from earlier in the week come rushing back with sickening speed. ‘ _I can’t stand him_ ’.

“Well, that’s my queue to leave! I’ll be seeing you lads around,” Blaise announces with his usual bluster. He slowly and gracefully unfolds himself from the bed, smooths down a few invisible creases in his clothes, shoots Harry a wink and a smirk, then saunters out of the room. Harry stares after him until the door clicks shut and then realises he’s alone...with Draco.

Harry ignores the unwelcome intruder and focuses instead on drying himself, finding clean clothes and getting dressed, all the while aware of the pair of stormy grey eyes burning into his skin. Rather than escape back to the privacy of the bathroom, he stubbornly struggles into his clothes in his room, refusing to be forced from his own space. He thinks perhaps Draco is waiting for him to say something, but fuck that. He will happily never utter another word to that arrogant prick.

“So, my roommates are going to the pub tonight, if you want to…you know…since my room’ll be empty,” Draco says, evidently getting impatient waiting for Harry to break the silence.

“What are you doing here, Malfoy?” Harry snaps. He’s not going to be drawn back into any sort of _thing_  with Draco, despite how much his heart aches for him to take Draco up on the invitation. He focuses on yanking his socks on; it’s taking everything he has to hold back from begging Draco to tell him why he hates him so much.

Draco flinches slightly at the use of his surname and straightens up on Blaise’s bed, where he’s still perched. “I’ve barely seen you for almost a week. I thought perhaps it might be nice to spend some time together,” he says, his vowels precise as his accent hardens. Harry can tell Draco’s closing himself off, and hates that he knows Draco well enough to recognise this.

“Why? What’s in it for you?” Harry says, coming to stand before Draco now that he no longer has the excuse of dressing with which to occupy himself. He folds his arms defensively across his chest and glares down at the boy on Blaise’s bed, momentarily enjoying the fact he’s not having to look up at him for a change.

The height reversal doesn’t last for long. Draco pushes up from the bed and uses the almost two inches he has on Harry to loom over him.

“What’s in it for me…? For fuck’s sake Harry. If you’ve got a problem, just come out and say it. I can’t be arsed with this if you’re going to be so childish,” he says, running a hand through his hair and pushing the pale blond strands off his face. It’s something he does when he’s stressed, and it looks like he’s been doing it a lot today. He looks exasperated, confused maybe, but not angry, or like Harry’s very presence offends him, and Harry finds himself starting to doubt what he’d overheard. But no, he can’t dismiss what Draco said. He’s a liar, a user, and their whole… _relationship_ was a game to him.

“Yeah? Well, neither can I,” Harry shouts. “It was nice while it lasted, but you’re going to have to find someone else to bait your parents with. I’m out.” He shoves Draco in the chest hard enough that he stumbles back onto Blaise’s bed, then storms out of the room.

As he descends the stairs, he suddenly feels lighter. It hurts, Merlin does it hurt, but at least both he and Draco know where they stand now.

* * *

 

It’s going to be shit and Harry doesn’t want to go. He wants to sulk a bit more, maybe make the most of the empty dorm and indulge in a bit of private time, but apparently, everyone is going — he’d heard someone say something about it being Parvati and Padma’s birthday — and Ron and Hermione won’t take no for an answer. After three weeks of putting up with his moodiness, their patience is finally wearing thin and according to them (or Ron at least), the best way to get out of his funk is to get drunk with his friends. Never mind that the one person he doesn’t want to see, the person responsible for the mood they are so keen for him to shake, is likely to be there too. Not that they know the full story there since he’s not actually told anyone anything beyond what he’d said that one time when Hermione cornered him during a moment of weakness. He wonders if maybe he can drink enough that he won’t remember anything. It certainly sounds like a solid plan right about now, he muses as he trails after his friends on the walk to Hogsmeade.

The noise and heat hit him like a solid wall as he ducks through the entrance of the Three Broomsticks. His glasses steam up instantly with the sudden temperature change, so he hastily yanks them off his face to clean them on his shirt. Ron disappears through the press of the bodies, heading to the bar, while Hermione goes to find the others. After a brief moment of indecision, Harry hastens to follow Hermione’s path as she winds her way between the crowded tables. He imagines all their friends will be expecting him and Draco to sit beside each other as they always used to, but he hopes that if he sticks close to Hermione, he might get away with sitting with her and Ron instead without raising too many eyebrows.

Draco is instantly recognisable as Harry nears the large, rowdy group in the corner, even with his still-foggy glasses; there’s no mistaking that pale blond hair. The eighth years have taken-over half the pub though, so Harry’s hopeful for the first time since being dragged from his bed earlier that the night won’t be completely terrible. With this many people (literally every eighth year and quite a few seventh years too) it shouldn’t be too difficult to keep adequate distance between himself and the blond wanker.

Several people wave him over, but as Hermione’s the one in front, he follows her lead and allows her to decide where they’ll sit. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Justin shuffling up to make space beside Draco, but thankfully Hermione either doesn’t see or has the sense to realise that Harry doesn’t want to be anywhere near him, so she heads to the opposite end of the large group where there’s a small gap at the end of the table.

Harry transfigures a couple of beer mats into stools for him and Hermione, then sits and shuffles closer to the table to wedge himself into the gap. It’s only then, once he’s settled, that he takes a proper look at the faces around him. He’d been so focused on not looking at Draco, he didn’t actually take in his surroundings, and he groans inwardly as he realises that he’s squeezed in beside Ginny. Fucking brilliant. Although given the choice between sitting with his ex-girlfriend and his ex...whatever Draco was, he thinks he’ll take his chances with polite indifference from Ginny.

“Hi Harry,” says Ginny, smiling at him in that fake way she now does ever since he’d told her he didn’t want to pick their relationship back up after the war. He’d been rather surprised at how well she had taken their break-up, having anticipated much more shouting, tears, and at least a few hexes, but she’d just shrugged and said _‘your loss’_. He hadn’t been...disappointed, as such, by her lack of reaction, but it would have been nice if she’d been a little upset. At least it hadn’t made things too difficult for their friends. They still spent time together, thanks to overlapping friendship circles, but they rarely spoke.

“Hey Gin. How’s er...things?” He asks, realising that he knows very little about what she’s up to these days, but feeling obliged to make polite conversation anyway since they’re practically fused together thanks to their close proximity.

“Good. Can’t complain. You?” She says, smiling blandly before taking a sip of her drink.

“Yeah, you know. Same old, same old.” When it becomes clear Harry has run out of conversation, she sighs and begins picking at the label on her bottle.

Merlin, this is awkward, Harry thinks, puffing out his cheeks and exhaling loudly. He glances over her shoulder to check on Ron’s progress with his pint but manages to catch Draco’s eye instead. Draco’s lip curls up in a sneer and for a moment they are both caught in a silent battle of wills, but then Draco breaks eye contact to turn and laugh at something Justin says, so Harry is left to scowl pointlessly at the side of his face. He almost wishes he’d never forgotten that stupid essay, then it could be him pressed against Draco’s side, surreptitiously holding hands below the table or teasingly rubbing each other's thighs, whispering quiet promises into each other’s ears as everyone else fades into the background. He’d not let himself properly look at Draco since he’d ended things. It was easier to ignore the confusion of feelings if he pretended like he didn’t exist. As he looks now though, all those feelings he’d tried so hard to squash down come flooding back, and he’s assaulted by soft, rose-tinted memories of their time together. Surely it hadn’t been a complete lie? Is Draco really that good of an actor?

“Harry? Are you even listening?” Ginny asks, waving a hand in front of his face.

“Hmm? Oh, um, sorry. Just looking for my drink,” he responds, his cheeks burning from a mixture of shame and arousal.

“It’s there. Right in front of you. Ron literally just leant over you to put it there,” Ginny says coolly.

“He did?” Ginny nudges the drink towards him and he gratefully picks it up and takes a large gulp to hide his embarrassment before looking around for his friend.

“Thanks mate!” He shouts, leaning around Hermione and raising the glass in cheers when he spots Ron wedged in a few people further down the table on Hermione’s other side. Ron raises his glass in response and smirks, before returning to his conversation with Seamus and a seventh year Hufflepuff Harry doesn’t know by name. He sighs and looks back at Ginny, who has now got a tidy little pile of label scraps in front of her. It is going to be a long night.

* * *

 

After the second or third pint, conversation between him and Ginny starts to flow more naturally and he even begins to remember why he’d gone out with her in the first place. He feels absolutely no desire to rekindle what they’d had (not that she’d want to anyway) but he thinks that maybe he’s not lost her as a friend. Perhaps if he’d not spent so much time sneaking off with Draco since breaking up with her, he may have reached this conclusion much sooner; another reason to hate Draco, he thinks bitterly, looking up to scowl in his direction.

Despite enjoying the company of his friends around him though, Harry’s thoughts never stray very far from Draco. It doesn’t help that he can feel the other boy’s eyes on him all night, nor that almost every time he looks up, Draco hastily looks away to stare pointedly at anywhere but Harry. Draco, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to be enjoying himself at all. On the few occasions that Harry has looked up without catching Draco staring right at him, he’s been scowling into his whiskey, sneering at one of his friends, or just glaring angrily in Harry’s general direction.

“Rather than staring at him all night, why not go sit with him?” Ginny asks after struggling to keep his attention once again. Harry has lost count of the number of times she’s had to wave in front of his face, prod him with a sharp finger, or more recently, send a stinging hex to his ankle.

“Fuck that, fucking knob,” he replies, before remembering that his Draco thing, and therefore his Draco _ex_ -thing is a secret — a poorly concealed secret, but a secret nonetheless. “Uh, I mean, sit with who?” He adds quickly. _Nailed it_.  
  
Ginny rolls her eyes and whacks the back of his head. “You know perfectly well who I’m talking about; that blond wanker you’ve been making sad puppy eyes at all night. That same blond wanker you’ve been pathetically mooning over since bloody sixth year. Honestly, it makes me want to chunder.”

“I don’t make puppy eyes at anyone!” He splutters. “And I’ve never once mooned over Draco fucking Malfoy, thank you very much.”

“Whatever, Harry. I don’t know what’s between you both,” she holds up her hands to shush him as he opens his mouth to object. “As I said, I don’t know what’s between you both, but if you don’t sack up and go and talk to him then I _will_  bind you together until you bloody well get it out of your system.”

Harry quailed slightly under the force of her threat. He didn’t doubt for a second she would go through with it too — probably with the full support of Ron, Hermione, and half of the eighth year if the looks their loud exchange has garnered is any indication.

He scrubs his hands over his face. It’s probably the alcohol, but a large part of him really does want to go and sit with Draco. It’s torture having him so close, and yet being unable to even talk, let alone touch him. He wants to be strong, to maintain the very well-deserved grudge, but he can feel his resolve crumbling; has felt it crumbling bit by with each stolen glance and replayed memory. If Draco’s words had been the truth, he didn't deserve even an ounce of sympathy...but what if he’d been lying to his friends, rather to than Harry? If there’s even the slightest chance this might be the case, Harry doesn’t want to throw it away. However, although time, the beer, and good company have helped to sand down some of the rough edges of his hurt, it remains raw. He’s still furious about what Draco said, truth or not, but the words really don’t mesh with what he knows about Draco since becoming close to him. The soft, quietly affectionate boy who just wanted to be held and have his hair stroked couldn’t have meant those words, surely? There must be some explanation. There _needs_  to be an explanation. One that doesn’t result in Harry’s battered heart getting bruised again.

Damn Ginny. Damn the alcohol. He was going to do it, wasn’t he? “Fine, I’ll do it,” he states grimly, setting his pint firmly down on the table. He glances towards the far corner, where Draco is sat, but his freshly steeled heart sinks as he sees Draco laughing uproariously with Blaise and Justin, clearly not moping into his whiskey anymore. He tells himself he’s not disappointed, it’s just that he’s worked himself up for some sort of confrontation, only to have the option taken away, and it’s left him feeling a bit...empty. Probably dodgy beer.

“Um, maybe I’ll talk to him later. Looks like he’s a bit occupied. And anyway, it’s too crowded over there. I’ll never find a seat, so…yeah. Looks like your evil plan is flawed, Gin. Ha...” he finishes desolately.

“Nope. Not getting out it that easily. I’m sure they’ll make space for the boy who lived,” Ginny says. “Or just sit on his lap,” she adds with a smirk. “Look, loads of people are doing it.”

Harry chokes on his mouthful of beer. “What?” Was Ginny actively encouraging him to sit on Draco’s lap in the middle of a crowded bar like one of those sickeningly loved-up couples? She’d not be saying these things if she knew their more recent history (and he realises he’s only got himself to blame for this) “I...I’m pretty sure that’d be a bad idea. We...um. We’re not really...Well. I guess we had a fight? I mean, he probably doesn’t even want to talk to me so lap-sitting is a definite no.”

“Oh come on, Harry, live a little! You’re not the only one with sad puppy eyes tonight. I never thought I’d say this, but I feel bad for the guy — he’s been looking at you like you incendio’d his favourite stuffed toy.”

“Hey! I’d never do that to— ” Harry cuts himself off before saying anything too revealing. “Not important. So…he’s been looking at me?” He asks. It’s rather eye-opening getting a second opinion on his Draco-related interactions. He’d been so keen to keep things private in the past, that he’d never spoken about Draco like this with anyone.

“Yes, and glaring at me. I think he might be a little jealous.” She smiles wickedly and nudges him with her shoulder.

“Really? Of you?”

“Thanks,” she says flatly, pursing her lips. Harry shudders as she suddenly puts him in mind of her Mother. “Look, whatever you two fought about, I’d bet my future Quidditch career that he’s sorry.”

He sighs. “It’s not that simple,” he says softly, losing confidence with the whole idea. It hadn’t just been a fight. It had been a betrayal, but he didn’t think Ginny needed the details. It didn’t matter.

“It never is with you, but at least talk to him, or I mean it, I will hex you both.”

“I hate you. But I promise I’ll talk to him. Just…maybe not tonight.”

“Okay, okay,” Ginny says patting his knee patronisingly, before grinning widely. Harry pales at the glint in her eye. He knows exactly what’s coming, but before he can clamp his hand over her mouth: “Hey, Malfoy!” She shouts across the pub, ensuring absolutely everyone was looking between her and a very bewildered looking Draco. “Got room for a little one on your knee?”

Harry stares at her aghast. “Ginny!? What the fuck!?”

“No time like the present! Go on Harry, off you pop!” She says with a grin that could be bottled and sold as pure evil.

Harry stands up dumbly. He’s drunk, but not so much that he doesn’t realise what he’s about to do. However, he’s definitely too drunk to stop it happening, so all he can do is allow his legs to carry him towards his doom. All around him, he can hear the shouts and whoops of his friends and classmates, and he’s vaguely aware of people patting him on the back as he passes. Future-Harry is going to hate him, but thankfully the same alcohol that’s causing him to go through with Ginny’s stupid idea is also protecting him from total mortification. At least Draco looks suitably horrified at the unfolding situation as he watches Harry’s approach open-mouthed and pink-cheeked.

Justin and Blaise shuffle out of the way and somehow manage to manoeuvre Draco so there’s room for Harry to perch on his knee, meaning Harry feels he has little option but to sit. He angles himself so he’s sat across Draco’s lap, perpendicular to the table, and he can feel Draco’s panicked breath on his neck, can feel his chest moving in and out against his arm. It’s not the first time they’ve sat like this, but it’s the first time they’ve done so with such a large audience (or any audience) and Harry briefly wonders if Draco is remembering the last time they were this close like he is.

Draco is holding himself rigidly beneath Harry as people cheer, laugh, and yell out lewd comments. He has no idea what to do with his hands so he holds them together awkwardly on his lap. He’s also very aware that his back is to Justin and everyone else on that side of Draco, but if he turns around too far, he’ll effectively be straddling Draco, and he really, _really_ , doesn’t want to think about the last time he and Draco did that…

Eventually, after what feels like hours, but had probably only been a few minutes, the collective attention of the baying crowd is captured by some other drama, and Harry feels some of the awkward tension drop from his shoulders. He still has no idea what to do with his hands, and Draco still feels about as comfortable as a statue beneath him, but at least he doesn’t feel as under scrutiny. He thinks wistfully about his half-finished pint, languishing on the other side of the table, and wishes he’d had the sense to pick it up before coming over here. This is all Ginny’s fault, he thinks sourly. But when he looks up to glare at her, he sees she’s deep in conversation with Blaise, of all people, and suddenly her insistence that he move makes a lot more sense.

“Well. This is awkward,” Draco says quietly, and Harry glances down at him, unsure whether or not a response is required. He looks painfully discomfited with the current situation, and Harry almost feels sorry for him until he remembers that he’s still _mostly_  pissed off with him.

“I thought you’d be happy. This is what you wanted, right? To piss off your Dad?” Harry hisses, suddenly spoiling for a fight, but still not keen to draw any attention back onto them.

Draco worriedly checks to see if anyone had overheard, then glares up at him, shifting slightly to bring his mouth closer to Harry’s ear. Harry tries to stifle a shiver as Draco’s breath gusts across his neck and down his shirt. “Would you care to tell me where you got that ridiculous idea from? Because as far as I was aware, things between us were fine. Better than fine, even. Until you went mental,” he spits. “And in what world would I want my…my… _ex_  to straddle my lap in the middle of the Three Broomsticks?” he asks through gritted teeth.

Harry rearranges himself on Draco’s lap to angle his body slightly more towards him since it’s becoming too distracting having Draco’s nose so close to his collarbone. He inclines his head towards Draco to better whisper in his ear but has to move one hand to Draco’s shoulder to steady himself. Draco tenses briefly, but doesn’t make any attempt to shrug him off.

“Cut the crap, Draco. I heard you, the other day, talking to Pansy and Theo...You said… you said you couldn't stand me, that what we were doing was just an act for your Father. I thought… I thought we had…” He trails off as his eyes start to burn with the threat of tears; he absolutely refuses to collapse into a weepy mess while sat on Draco Malfoy’s lap. Blinking a few times, he takes a steadying breath and wills the tears to fuck off and die. He should probably leave, but now they’ve opened this line of communication, as drink-addled and inappropriate as it is, he’s determined not to leave until he finds out the truth.

Draco frowns, confusion etched across his face, and at this distance, Harry can see each furrow in his pale skin as his eyes search Harry’s for clues. “The other day…? I don’t…? Oh! Oh fuck,” he exclaims, his eyes widening as realisation dawns. Harry startles when he suddenly feels the warm weight of Draco’s hand on his thigh. “No. No no no. I didn’t mean any of that! Honestly. I don’t know why I said it. I just… I didn’t want them to know how much...”

Draco falters as if choking on the words. His thumb rubs back and forth absently on Harry’s leg, but Harry doesn’t draw attention to it, he just grips Draco’s shoulder more securely and moves his thumb in tandem. Draco looks genuinely upset — is he telling the truth or is this another lie? Harry is so confused, and hurt, and drunk, and he just wants this all to be over with; to skip forward to the conclusion no matter whether it’s good or bad. All he can think about is how it feels to have Draco beneath him, beside him, around him again.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth though? How can I trust you?” He asks hoarsely.

“I…I don’t know…but you have to know I’ve never lied to you, not once,” Draco says firmly.

Harry searches his eyes, looking for anything that could give him a definite answer; he wants so much to believe him. He lifts one hand to cup Draco’s jaw and brings their foreheads together.

“I want to believe you. Really, I do…”

“Please Harry,” he implores. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Draco tentatively curls his arm around Harry’s waist, and slides the other further up his thigh. Harry can’t help but relax into the loose embrace as he dismisses the last of his worries. _This_  is the Draco he knows. The Draco who delights in pressing his permanently cold toes to Harry’s calves; the Draco who teases Harry endlessly about his hair, but once threw a tantrum when Harry threatened to cut all off; the Draco who sat with him at his parents’ graveside all Halloween night and didn’t complain once despite the wind and rain.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so, sorry I said those things,” Draco whispers, and they’re so close Harry feels the words ghost across his lips. He leans in and softly presses his lips to Draco’s in silent acceptance of his apology. It’s only the briefest of touches, but it’s enough to set Harry’s heart aflame. When he pulls back and opens his eyes, he finds Draco smiling back at him, relief and joy mingled into one, and he can’t help closing the distance between them again, only this time he doesn’t intend to hold back. Their lips crash together, and Harry licks into Draco’s mouth as Draco’s arms tighten around him, the hand on his waist slipping beneath his shirt. It’s messy but perfect, and Harry can’t believe he survived so long without it, and—

Harry freezes mid-kiss, as a sudden change in the ambient noise reminds him with sickening clarity where they are. He pulls back a short distance and Draco whines his displeasure.

“Um…are we still keeping this a secret?” Harry asks hesitantly, too scared to look away from Draco’s face.

Draco frowns, but as Harry watches, he can see the exact moment that realisation dawns on him. He peers over Harry’s shoulder, his cheeks getting redder by the second. “Ah, I’m fairly sure that broom has flown.”

“Ooh shit. And…are you okay with that?” He’s not sure what he’ll do if Draco walks away now. He holds on a little bit tighter just in case Draco spooks.

“I...yes. I think I am.”

Harry grins, sagging in relief, and leans in and plants a kiss on Draco’s nose, laughing at Draco’s shocked reaction. “Me too,” he agrees.

Around them, the pub erupts in wolf whistles, cheers, and more than a few ‘ _about fucking time_ ’s’ and ‘ _I knew it_ ’s’, and Harry couldn’t be happier.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Find me on tumblr @ [coriesocks](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/coriesocks)


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